


With A Single Step

by keelywolfe



Series: Shopping [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short prequel to 'The Road Delivered Us Home'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Single Step

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to the first story in this series, 'The Road Delivered Us Home' and as such, it probably won't make sense unless you read that. So check that out first, spend hours reading it, and then come back and read this short bit. *G*
> 
> What can I say, I wanted to see Balin's POV on all this.

* * *

It had been a long time since Balin had been advisor to King Thror. A long time, a lifetime ago; long enough to bury kings and princes, and for hair shorn in grief to grow back white instead of steel gray. 

In those days, he had been a Dwarf of no little regard, the best advisor to the King and if his counsel had often been ignored, well, that did not make it any less sound. He'd been a true advisor to King Thorin for only the handful of months since they had retaken Erebor and if Balin were asked what the greatest difference between the two might have been, he would say that Thorin always listened to his advice. 

He might not take it, mind. But he did listen.

On this particular morning, Balin had advice aplenty to offer with only one small problem; he was minus the required King. The Men and the Elves who were to attend the day's council were already gathering and while some might say a King was never late, Balin had never thought anyone was above a handful of manners. Even his brother had a few beaten into his thick skull. 

Manners dictated that Thorin join the council before the sweet rolls were crumbs and the pints were dregs. The platters had still been piled high when Balin had made polite excuses; there was still time, and Balin's footsteps echoed as he trotted through the hall towards the King's chambers, grumbling to himself at the ache in his knee. Age made gossips of every joint and his knees were particularly chatty in the mornings. 

If his knees did not appreciate the hasty journey, Balin would not make mention of it. It was not as though Thorin was one to shirk duty. There were times, near the end, that Balin recalled Thror missing most of his obligations, with his son and grandson taking up the burden in his absence. Days Thror had spent in the treasure rooms, cupping gold in his hands and watching the coins spill from his grip in a waterfall. 

Resolutely, Balin put that memory aside. If Thror had made mistakes, he had paid for them dearly. They all had. 

His grandson, on the other hand, often didn't rest when he _should_. He'd spend hours poring over the plans for rebuilding, over trade agreements to get their people the supplies they needed, be it food or tools, endless meetings with emissaries from all walks. Coin bought favor but it was hardly as simple as a lad with pockets jangling buying apples from the local merchant. 

It was not that Thorin didn't trust his own advisors and ambassadors to handle such things, Balin knew. Thorin's confidence in the _other_ peoples of Middle-earth had been badly shaken entirely too many times for him to trust their words and while Balin did understand, it did make for a King who spent far too little time sleeping as he should.

Then again, Balin doubted Thorin would find sleep regardless. 

On this morning with duty looming and emissaries waiting, Balin walked quietly through the King's rooms, knowing that Thorin was not abed. Nor was he at his table, and the food upon it as he passed was untouched, already gone cold and congealed. 

He took a sweet roll from one of the platters for himself, munching appreciatively as he made his way through the spacious rooms. They were clean, of course; the gilded tiles polished to a high gloss, and mostly empty for all that. The mountain was the King's and all within it his, and Thorin had thus far seemed content with one moldering sofa that had been pulled from his own childhood rooms and a spindly table that held two tattered books. 

The only paintings left on the walls were of Thror and Thrain, both resplendent in their armor, each magnificent in oils and brushstrokes. Balin ignored their stern expressions in favor of finding their flesh and blood. 

The far side of the chambers led to a cunning doorway cut into the stone, and it held every bit the magic that the one hidden near the thrush's nest did. Invisible to one on the other side of it, unless opened by the King, and there Balin found sunlight spilling in from the opened door, crimson-tinged gold. Balin sighed inwardly as he stepped out onto the King's walk and there found his King. 

Thorin stood in the middle of the walkway, hands braced on the ledge as he looked out and others might think he surveyed his Kingdom. They would see eyes taking in the lands of his ancestors, of his people, watching as the devastation left by the dragon was slowly mended by Man and Dwarf. 

Others didn't know Thorin as Balin did, and he knew better, knew to take in the sight of Thorin in yesterday's clothes with a narrow eye. 

Balin stepped up next to Thorin, licking away the last bit of icing from his fingers before he set his own elbows on the ledge. He could hear hammerstrikes below them, workers that had been up before the sun rose at work on the main gates. A few more days and the great doors would be able to close once again, they had been assured, and if the builders had taken extra care in setting spells against dragon's fire into the stone, it was only to be expected. No great loss ever came without at least one lesson learned. 

"I'll be along shortly, Balin," Thorin told him without a glance and Balin had no doubt that it was true. Thorin would be along and he would sit at a table of Men and Elves, and Balin would hide his astonishment yet again as Thorin kept his temper reined in, his words calm as debates raged on. Though perhaps he should not be so terribly surprised; Thorin's patience had been another lesson hard won.

Thorin would be along and when lunch came he would eat heartily, making up for a picked-over breakfast. Plans would be made or not, and tomorrow would be much the same. Endless debates, endless councils, and Balin's knees would offer their endless word on the subject.

Just the thought of that was enough for Balin to give a bit of unsolicited advice and surely every one of his aching joints would thank him for it, even if Thorin did not.

"Why don't you write to him, lad?" Balin asked, pitching his voice only just loud enough to be heard over the distant fall of hammers. 

To his credit, Thorin did not pretend to misunderstand. He shifted on his feet, restlessly, his eyes on the horizon. "I'm sure he believes we said all that needs saying. Otherwise, he would not have left."

"Nonsense," Balin said crisply. "He forgave you, Thorin, I do know that—"

"He forgave a fool on his deathbed," Thorin said harshly and Balin winced. "He may not have been so generous had he known I would live."

"You might ask him that very thing," Balin pointed out mildly. "That is something that needs saying, I do believe."

Thorin sighed and finally ducked his head, casting Balin a sidelong look. The weariness in his eyes was not unexpected, yet it was the quiet pain in his gaze that gave Balin one to match, a deeper ache than any morning complaint his knees could offer settling in his chest. "Balin, I cannot write him a letter asking forgiveness for…that."

Ah, yes. That. Thorin, who was never one to skimp on words, who hurled them with deadly accuracy at both others and himself, would hesitate to speak of _that_. For just a moment, Balin recalled Thorin as a child and even then his smiles had been rare; such a solemn, fierce boy he had been! He'd never imagined what that child would have to grow to become and much as he was willing to follow Thorin, much as he believed in him, Balin wished, for just a moment, he'd been allowed to follow a path where his King might have more reasons to flash that rare smile. 

Fond as his memory of that lad was, it was the Thorin that stood before him now that Balin clapped on the shoulder, offering what solace he could. "Then perhaps someday you might ask him that very question to his face."

"Perhaps," Thorin agreed softly, and he turned away, head lifting as he left behind melancholy and assumed again the mantel of the King. Balin watched it with a keen eye and a heavy heart, considering. 

Yes, he would like to see that smile again, a great deal more often, he decided abruptly, and the last person to properly draw it forth was one Master Baggins. 

He followed Thorin as he strode off the King's walk, hardly noticing the door closing behind them. Already the wheels in his mind were turning, one tool that had yet to grow dusty from lack of use despite his age. There were plans to be made, then, furtive and clever, plans, yes, cunning ones. He would have to do them in secret for now and even so, it would take some time to arrange it, there was no doubt of that. 

But Balin had not been the King's best advisor for nothing. 

-finis-


End file.
